


The Devil's Hand

by Highly_Illogical



Series: A Whole New World [1]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bible Quotes, Credence Barebone Learning Magic, M/M, Mary Lou Barebone is Her Own Warning, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-03
Updated: 2017-11-03
Packaged: 2019-01-28 22:05:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12616572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Highly_Illogical/pseuds/Highly_Illogical
Summary: Credence's crash course in wizardry should be going better than this, and Percival doesn't understand why.At least until a visit to the President's office delivers the solution to the problem on a silver platter.





	The Devil's Hand

There’s something _off_ about Credence.

Percival can’t put his finger on what it is, but it’s there, and it’s driving him up a wall. The boy won’t say what’s wrong – speaking up for himself is the lesson he’s finding hardest to learn –, but there has to be something.

He’s read the reports: Credence has enough power in him to reduce a thriving metropolis to a sad wasteland of warped metal and crumbled brick. It’s frightening to think about.

So where _is_ that power?

Neither of them really thought he would take to magic like a fish to water. There were obstacles to overcome, not the least of which the fact that when Credence was first presented with a spellbook, he regarded it as an unholy thing that would surely condemn his eternal soul to perpetual damnation, or a predator that would jump up and swallow him whole if he dared to touch it. (Now you have to pry Percival’s old copy of _Chadwick’s Charms, Vol. 1_ out of his reluctant hands at mealtimes if you want to get him to eat while actually looking at his plate, but that’s another story.)

But the truth is… Percival expected better. He isn’t saying so out loud, of course, because Credence’s self-esteem really doesn’t need to take another battering, but with that much raw power at his disposal, he should be improving far, far faster. He has never, in all his years of experience, seen such unwavering dedication, but it isn’t paying off as much as it rightfully should.

There could be a thousand reasons why Credence is still struggling: he has a lot to catch up on, and he’s no longer a child who absorbs knowledge with ease. His magic will forever bear the mark of his hardships, and Percival expects it will never work quite the same way as everyone else’s.

And then, of course, there’s the matter of the wand: it’s notoriously harder to perform at your best with someone else’s, and the tangle of bureaucracy that is MACUSA dictates that they share one for the time being. Percival had never realized how stifling the rules and regulations could be until he found himself in need to get a permit for someone who was supposed to be dead. Oh, he has powerful enough contacts to find a way, people who owe him favors, but until he hears back from them, they’re stuck passing his own back and forth.

But there’s something else, Percival is certain of it. Good instincts are a big part of being an Auror, and right now, his instinct is screaming that there’s something he’s missing in this picture, something elusive that could potentially lead to a major breakthrough in Credence’s progress if only he could find out _what in the name of Mercy Lewis the blasted problem is._

It’s not the incantations, that’s for sure: all his worries about having a supposedly poor memory were unfounded, and he can rattle them off just fine when asked. He has the occasional problem wrapping his tongue around them, but that could happen to anyone, the real trouble with spoken spells is that he needs some convincing before they come out loud and clear and without a stutter.

If there’s one area where he admittedly needs some work, however, it’s his wand movements. It took a while for Percival to see it, perhaps because he took a little too much secret enjoyment in walking him through their finer points, his own, more experienced hand wrapped around his for help, their bodies pressed closer together than they would dare outside the context of their lessons, where all rules of propriety are unofficially off; but it _is_ a problem, and he’s cursing himself for letting it go unnoticed for his own selfish pleasure.

Of course, every time he fails, it’s a guaranteed apology, a low mumble of self-deprecation that seems to summon the ghost of that vile woman and have her whispering falsehoods at his shoulder until his next success clears the air and they can both breathe easier.

The most reoccurring variation seems to be something along the lines of: “I’m sorry, sir, Ma always said I was clumsy.”

But the fact is that he isn’t, not by Percival’s definition of clumsy. He doesn’t trip over his feet with no explanation; he doesn’t fumble and drop things any more frequently than anyone else; he’s not the kind of person who requires a permanently well-stocked potions cabinet for small injuries. There’s no reason in the world those slender, graceful pianist’s hands should have trouble with a wand, and yet they do, and it’s holding him back.

It’s not the end of the world, there are bigger problems to take care of than his unlikely student’s apparent inability to flick and twirl and jab _just so_ , but it’s slowly driving Percival insane.

And it doesn’t go unnoticed for long, either.

“I would ask if everything’s all right, Percy, but I doubt you would actually hear me. Your mind is miles away.”

He blinks Seraphina’s office back into focus and offers her a small, perfunctory smile. Blast her and her keen eyes that never miss a thing.

“It’s… nothing.”

“Well,” she says knowingly, “I’m here if your ‘nothing’ ever comes back to bite you, you know that.”

“Thanks.”

He lapses back into silence and takes a look around. The President’s office is a delight to watch. It’s never quite still—mouse-like memos scurrying up and down her desk and vying for her attention, official documents signed with a flourish and sent off with a flick of her wand only to be swiftly replaced by the next one, the hand on her miniature Magical Exposure Threat Level clock twitching incessantly as her eagle eye regularly checks that it’s still sitting comfortably in the green zone. Even the quietest day is like a well-rehearsed dance.

But every dance has a misstep every once in a while. Seraphina peers critically at her favorite inkwell and the corners of her mouth turn down.

“Almost out of ink,” she says casually.

What follows can only be called a moment of epiphany.

Her ink. Her _specially delivered_ ink that she liked to have regularly owled to her ever since they were schoolmates, an enchanted self-drying thing that has been with her for years, preventing everything from her homework to her presidential decrees from becoming a single, giant black smear as her pinky finger drags over it.

He watches her squeeze one last signature out of it, staring at her elegant hand and making every legendary victim of Salem turn in their grave with his silent cursing. How could he have missed it?

“Sera… you’re left-handed.”

“How very observant,” she deadpans. “You’ve known me… how many years?”

“Never mind that now. This is going to sound strange, but what happens when you cast a spell with your right?”

She blinks, and for a moment, he fears she’s going to call for reinforcements and finally have him committed. “I don’t. Unless I’m injured, and that’s an experience I don’t care to repeat.”

He can empathize with her perfectly on that. He’s trained himself to cast with either hand in case his wand arm is hurt in a fight, and he maintains that every Auror worth their salt should do the same, but it’s an absolute last resort. Simple combat magic will come to him easily enough, the kind where you point and hope it hurts, but as a right-handed man, you can’t stick a wand in his left and ask him to produce anything more refined. He supposes the same thing is true in reverse.

“But suppose you have a left-handed person who is _not_ injured. What would possess them to use their right instead?”

Seraphina narrows her eyes at him. “Nothing I can think of,” she says. “If your mystery man is a wizard, that is. You haven’t been seeing anyone you shouldn’t, have you, Percy?”

The pieces fall together, and the picture they’re painting isn’t pretty. Percival sees red. Is there nothing, _nothing_ about him that woman couldn’t leave well enough alone?

He doesn’t deign her insinuations of a non-existing fling with a No-Maj with an answer, and instead says simply: “That was… enlightening.”

When he comes home from work that evening, Percival decides to tackle the issue the only way he knows how: like a full-fledged investigation. And the first thing you do in an investigation is to look for clues.

That night, when the boy is already asleep, he looks through his copious notes by the faint glow of his wandlight. It’s an outpouring of curiosity, with a question mark every few words as Credence diligently jots down all the things he has to remind himself to ask about the magical world (he hasn’t yet remembered, or dared, to ask the half of it), but most of all, it supports his theory. Credence has always had less than perfect penmanship, a large scrawl more childlike than his years, but Percival had chalked that up to a bad teacher and a lack of practice: he supposes the boy never had the time to do much writing, and that _she_ couldn’t care less about its quality, delighted, if anything, at having something else to criticize. Now, after that eye-opening conversation with Seraphina, he sees things differently. He would do worse than this if asked to write with his left.

And then the observation begins. It’s ridiculously hard not to get distracted when the object of said observation is Credence, but he manages to stay on track, and the signs are so clear that he really doesn’t know how he could have been so abysmally stupid.

They’re in a quill unthinkingly picked up with his left and promptly switched.

They’re in a tendency to gesticulate more with his left when he’s invested in what he’s saying.

But Percival has to be sure, and so, not without a hint of guilt, he comes up with little tests. The boy really doesn’t deserve to be experimented on like he’s some oddity to be put on display, but he needs proof, and proof he will get.

He introduces Credence to Banishing Charms, smiling as he fights off a grin at the description of a spell that is so unabashedly _fun_ , and demonstrates by having him stand at the other end of the room and conjuring an innocent-looking No-Maj baseball ‘for practice purposes’.

The catch is flawless, and very much left-handed.

He pretends to drop things within his reach, and the script is almost always the same—ever helpful, Credence will pick up the offending item with his left, change hands in what he thinks is a surreptitious manner, and offer it to Percival with his right.

But most of all – and Percival wants to break something when he notices – the real proof comes with the fact that he’s been looking at Credence’s hands a lot more than is ordinary (or sane) in search of his clues, and sooner or later, he sees another difference.

His scars.

Those thrice-damned reminders of his past that no amount of healing can entirely erase.

Both of his hands bear the marks of that woman’s abuse, but they’re not the same, as he had foolishly thought.

His left hand has visibly endured more punishment, and Percival just wants to retch.

He thought he was always aware of what was going on around him, but most of all, he thought he’d been doing right by the boy for once in his life. Now both of these are being called into question. Credence’s needs slipped through his fingers and once again went unfulfilled, and it’s all his damn fault.

Any decent wandmaker asks about your dominant hand the second you walk into the shop, but they haven’t been into one of those, so the question never came. Credence always did everything with his right, painstakingly, without saying a word, and being right-handed himself, Percival never thought to question it. The boy never protested, and so they’d been operating on a misunderstanding all this time. _Well, you know what they say about assuming._

He doesn’t know how to broach the subject, and so he just… doesn’t. Percival is a man of action, not words, and so, the next time he passes Credence his wand for him to follow his example, he gently nudges his left hand instead of his right with the handle.

Credence looks distinctly like a mouse cornered by a cat.

“… what?”

“I’m not blind, Credence.” _Well, not anymore._ “You were originally left-handed, weren’t you? Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“Because it’s wrong, sir.”

Just like that. Clear as day and without a hint of hesitation. A simple fact of life. The wand lies forgotten on the table and Percival’s fists clench as he reminds himself that sudden noises are liable to startle the boy half out of his wits and punching that inviting wooden surface is a bad, bad idea.

“I don’t suppose I have to ask you who put that in your head.”

“It’s not _her_ , Mr. Graves.”

 _Don’t justify her,_ he mentally begs. _Hate her, be angry at her, be sad for all she took from you, but don’t justify her if you value my sanity._

But then he thinks back to what Seraphina said—that nothing would possess a left-handed man to use his right, _if he’s a wizard_. Does that mean this is common among No-Majs, and not just another way to torment Credence that that woman came up with just for him?

“Before… before _everything_ , I was around children every day, and I saw it all the time. Using your left hand is wrong, Mr. Graves. That’s just how it is. We all had to learn to use our right.”

“And what would you say,” he begins, bracing himself for his reaction, “if I told you I know someone who can do better magic with her left than half the men in my department with their right, and nobody bats an eye at it?”

“Really? But—” He visibly swallows whatever it is he intended to say and shakes his head, and Percival’s heart clenches. Half his sentences that begin with ‘but’ end up unfinished. He never even questions what to eat for breakfast, let alone this.

“The wizarding world doesn’t work like the world you’re used to, Credence, I trust you know that by now.”

He nods, sensing a lecture coming on and readying himself to listen, a model student if he ever saw one.

“And one of the differences is that we think that’s utter nonsense. If it comes naturally to use your right, you use your right, and if you favor your left, you use your left. That doesn’t make you a better or worse wizard, or a better or worse person, any more than the color of your eyes or your hair. You’re born with it.”

He can see Credence’s mind processing it, no Legilimency required.

“ _And before him shall be gathered all nations: and he shall separate them one from another, as a shepherd divideth his sheep from the goats: And he shall set the sheep on his right hand, but the goats on the left._ ”

Percival doesn’t need to ask where that comes from: that particular tone of voice is only ever reserved for one thing.

“Another one of her quotes?”

“It was what I heard the most as I learnt to read and write,” he says, and though he’s sitting right in front of him, Percival has the strong impression that he’s not quite there. “Along with ‘stupid’ and ‘clumsy’ for taking so long.”

That’s what he hates the most about the rare times Credence opens up about his past: not when he shrinks in on himself and falls back into stuttering, but when he speaks of his abuse like that, calmly as you please, as if he were talking about the weather, with no perception of how wrong it was.

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I can’t see any goats or sheep around here. Just try it once, all right?”

“It’s the devil’s hand.” For a moment, that sounds like he’s insisting on spouting the ridiculous views that woman drove into his head, but then there’s a shift on his face, a spark of something that Percival would even go as far as to call _rebellion_ if he didn’t know all too well that the word doesn’t suit Credence in the slightest, and as his left hand closes on the abandoned handle, he can swear he hears him mutter something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like “It’s only fitting.”

The task is nothing Earth-shattering, which is why Percival chose today, of all days, to confront Credence about the problem: they’re just reviewing, he’s not piling the left-handed novelty on top of an entirely new spell to learn.

But the sad remains of what used to be a teacup are strewn between them, and the Mending Charm can be a little fiddly for such basic charmwork, especially because (Percival isn’t saying so and he doesn’t think Credence has noticed the difference) he’s expecting great things from this experiment and he’s trusted him with the good china.

 _Please work, please work, please work._ Such a simple spell hadn’t caused him this much suspense since his first year at Ilvermorny.

“ _Reparo._ ”

It is textbook perfection, a sweeping gesture that collects every last shard and artfully melts the delicate flower pattern back together, an illustration that jumped out of the page and came to life.

For the briefest second, Percival thinks Credence even looks more handsome like this—but that’s not it. He’s just happier.

He stares wordlessly at his handiwork and then at the wand, and the look on his face tells him that he’s finding his newfound freedom more empowering than the spell itself.

One thing is certain, Percival will be ordering a lot of Seraphina’s self-drying ink from now on.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay.  
> I am now unhealthily obsessed with Credence's hands, it's official.  
> Forcing left-handed children to use their right was commonplace even in non-abusive households, and I think it fits Credence perfectly.   
> (Also, "left-handed" was a euphemism for "homosexual" in the 19th century, read into that what you will.)
> 
> The quote is from the King James version of the Holy Bible, Matthew 25, 32-33.  
> My knowledge of the English translations of the Bible is ridiculously limited and I apologize if I happened upon a bad edition.


End file.
